


I'll Be Your Post Traumatic Stressor

by LynnLarsh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drugs, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Moriarty Is A Dick, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:51:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>(Also known as: Jim Moriarty’s Nasty Habit of Drugging Sebastian Moran and the One Time It Almost Got Him Killed)</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Your Post Traumatic Stressor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali_asleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/gifts).



It starts out simple enough, more of a precaution than anything. Just a few drops of Sodium Pentothal to ensure that his motives are clear, that his new position isn’t obtained under false pretenses, malevolent means. Not that Jim doubts his decision, his rather extensive character analysis. Not that he’s in any way suspicious of the new hire, no. Sometimes it’s just interesting to see. To know for sure.

He’s deep under, the sort of sleep that most equate with the dead, when Jim sticks a needle in his arm, pumps him full of what the rabble oh so creatively refer to as Truth Serum. It takes less than ten minutes before Seb’s skimming the line of REM and cognizance, before his will begins to erode under the pressures of chemical manipulation and James Moriarty.

“Seb,” Jim whispers, casually, playfully taps at his cheek. Seb begins to stir, slower than Jim assumes he normally would, but that’s just the GHB Jim slipped into the bottle of water he drank earlier, not necessarily from any lack of skill. In fact, Seb’s slight hesitation after the first sip was commendable considering the drug markets itself as clear, odorless, and tasteless in liquid form, practically undetectable when dissolved into outside sources. Commendable and impressive. “Oh Sebastian,” Jim tries again, scratches his nails down Seb’s cheek, four red lines that catch on lips and stubble and look lighter in the dark than they’ll probably appear in daylight. “Wakey, wakey.”

One good slap (a wind back, a full contact, a sharp tingle from wrist to fingertips) and Seb jolts upright, hand around Jim’s forearm as if he knew exactly where it would be. Delightful.

“B-Boss?” Seb stutters, still bleary from sleep and drug and confusion. But somehow, his focus is obvious. Somehow, he still manages to impress.

“Just here for a little chat, dear. A test of sorts, if you will,” Jim coos, settles himself down more heavily on Seb’s legs, practically straddling his lap. “No need to get up.”

“I don’t…” Seb blinks, the danger of the situation finally starting to ease its way front and center. Seb narrows his eyes, more awake now, but still fighting the drugs. “What kind of test?”

“You’ll see,” Jim hums. “Mustn’t spoil the surprise so quickly. Now. Shall we begin?” He taps a rhythm on the side of Seb’s thigh, a persistent pressure through a few layers of fabric. “Let’s have your name then. Go on.”

“Sebastian Moran,” Seb says, no hesitation, no more confusion, so he’s put two and two together. And quite quickly at that. Good boy.

“Rank?” Jim asks next, and Seb has the audacity to smirk. Delightful.

“Before or after dishonorable discharge?” Seb asks right back, and Jim has to stop himself from giggling, because it’s too wonderful, just like Christmas, everything he could have hoped for and more.

But while he does manage to prevent a giggle, Jim can’t quite hold back the grin as he replies, “Before should be beneficial enough. Go on then.”

“Major,” Seb says, matter of fact. All things Jim already knows.

Which just leaves the most important question.

“If I gave you an opening, left no possible way for you to be caught, how would you kill me?”

Again, no hesitation, barely a breath of space between Jim’s question and Seb’s answer.

“I wouldn’t.”

It’s almost a surprise, Jim realizes, a sense of intrigue mixed with relief mixed with a still slightly nagging disbelief. But if Jim had expected anything different, he wouldn’t have hired Sebastian Moran in the first place, now would he?

 

 

The second time is purely for sport. 

Drugging one’s employees doesn’t necessarily make for good workplace morale, but sometimes there’s an itch there that Jim can’t help but scratch. A persistent prodding that begs to tear them apart, each and every one of them, figure out how they breathe, how they eat, how they smile, how the scream. An almost constant desire to simply understand how the world ticks.

But tearing off an employee’s skin bit by bit, fileting them into little, dissected, explainable pieces until their hearts stop beating, makes for even less desirable workplace morale. Usually. So Jim is left with psychological dissection. Manipulation. 

Drugs.

It’s not so much plan as convenience that it happens to be Seb again. Right place right time and all that. For Jim at least.

“Come here often?” Jim all but croons, plopping onto a bar stool and leaning into Seb’s side in a veiled attempt at drunkenness. It’s obvious the hired hand is surprised, possibly even considering escape, but underneath all that is the anticipated intrigue, the expected level of undeniable curiosity. And maybe even a bit of arousal? Too soon to say, too many outside variables, but fascinating.

“B-Boss,” Seb stutters, also expectedly, even at an under the breath whisper. Clearly he’s been thrown off kilter. Excellent. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Jim relishes the sound of those words on rugged, too often composed lips. 

“I’m ordering another drink,” Jim hums, leans in a bit closer than necessary. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Seb groans, glancing left and then right, doing a full scan of the periphery like a proper body guard. “No. I mean… What are you doing _here_?” He says at last, suddenly trying not to make any contact with Jim’s gaze at all. Jim can’t help but grin. Isn’t that just absolutely precious?

“I suppose I should be asking you the same question,” Jim replies, being intentionally vague, baiting more of Seb’s interest. Before going on, however, Jim makes it a point to wave the bartender over, take (in Seb’s opinion, certainly) a frustratingly long time picking out a rather complicated cocktail. He then proceeds to wait until it’s placed in front of him, delicately sipped, and approved of, before continuing. 

Seb is only just barely restraining a complaint when Jim finally says, “Nothing in your file said _anything_ about you being _gaaaaay_.” He singsongs the last word before taking another sip; muddled basil and mint sprigs, prosecco, cucumber vodka, elderflower liqueur. An herbal little number exquisitely branded, _Naughty Nymph_.

It isn’t until Jim has brought the martini back up to his lips a second time that Seb finally manages to reply. Though not in the way Jim is expecting.

“This place has decent music,” he says, and Jim frowns. A denial? “And damn good drinks,” he adds, motioning with his glass of scotch in the direction of Jim’s cocktail. No. That’s all wrong. Could Jim have been so far off the- “And maybe I didn’t think that where I decide to stick my cock, or where I decide I want someone else to stick theirs, was any of my boss’ business.” Jim blinks. Seb tips back another not insubstantial swallow of scotch, and winks. “But since apparently it is,” he waves a hand in the direction of the scantily clad men currently grinding against one another on the dance floor. “Then yes. I guess you could say I’m _gaaaaay_.”

And Jim can’t help himself. The laughter is coming straight from his chest, up his throat, and out of his mouth before he can stop it. And the smug look on Seb’s face should make him angry, but instead it just makes him laugh harder. Because of course Seb wouldn’t disappoint him, wouldn’t be so _ordinary_ as all that. Of course not.

It’s almost a shame that, the next time Seb’s attention wavers, Jim has to ruin the moment by dropping a few tablets of MDMA into his scotch. He was already collecting such fabulous data without it.

Though that isn’t to say the data he collects in the hours to come won’t be equally as fabulous.

Sebastian seems to realize quite quickly that he’s been dosed, and even more quickly that Jim is most likely the one to blame. The moment he does, and the moment of clearly defined surrender to it after that, is telling all on it’s own. But the way he begins leaning a bit closer to Jim, carefully running callused fingers over the bare skin of Jim’s arms, is even more so.

Eventually, Seb’s wandering touch finds the palm of Jim’s hand, fingertips ghosting over his life line. Seb’s eyes are wide, amazed, as he says, “Nothing.”

“Excuse me?” Jim hums, partially amused and partially annoyed, because he doesn’t like not knowing what someone’s thinking. Least of all Seb, for some reason. But the look on his face is hard to stay annoyed at for long, so Jim continues to smirk, continues to prod for answers. “Oh, Sebastian?” Jim tries, but Seb is enthralled with the webbings of Jim’s fingers. “Eyes up here, love. Come on.”

It takes a comically long time for Seb to yank his gaze away from Jim’s hand and refocus on his face. His pupils are enormous, his grin nothing short of goofy.

“Yes, boss?” He practically sighs, the words saturated in admiration. Jim tries not to roll his eyes.

“You said, “Nothing,” just now,” Jim recounts. Seb nods, pauses, and frowns.

“I did?” He blinks, frowns a bit deeper, shakes his head. The short term memory loss bothers him enough to throw a flicker of unease into the flow of reward chemicals currently drowning him in blissful ignorance. Fascinating.

“Yes, dear. You did,” Jim does roll his eyes then, grabbing Seb’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “Any reason why you might have said that, hm?”

Again, it takes Seb a drastically long time to find an answer, but when he does, it doesn’t disappoint.

“Oh. Your hands. Nothing there,” Seb sighs in relief, shaking his head with a soft breath of laughter at himself. Good boy. “There’s nothing,” he chuckles, a deep, warm vibration of sound Jim is sure no one but he can hear. Seb flips their linked hands over and open, allowing his other hand to travel the expanse of Jim’s palm again. “No calluses, no scars, no sign of it at all.”

“Sign of what?” Jim asks, desperate to know, despite himself.

Seb raises an eyebrow as if Jim’s stupid for not knowing. The sense of irony isn’t lost on him, though part of Jim would be lying if he said it didn’t piss him the hell off. 

“Death,” Seb finally says, his tone implying that it’s somehow an obvious conclusion to all that. 

“Death,” Jim parrots and hates himself instantly. This isn’t going as well as he’d hoped.

“You’ve never killed anybody, right?” Seb finally connects the dots for the class, gesticulating as he explains even though Jim’s fingers are still intertwined with his. “Because there’s no blood on your hands. Not real blood, obviously. Metaphorical blood. Scars from someone’s fingernails or calluses from holding a gun or a knife or all those fucked up memories that time likes to imprint on skin like mine.”

Jim’s eyes can’t help but dart across the length of Seb’s hand on instinct, categorizing scars his research has already told him will be there. It’s disturbing and amazing and Seb is somehow still talking.

“They’re like tattoos. Ones you give yourself or a lucky son of a bitch manages to give you before you slit his throat. The proof is always in the hands, boss. Always in the hands. But… You’ve kept the proof _off_ of _your_ hands. There’s nothing. It’s… Impressive.”

Jim doesn’t quite know what to say. It’s true, in a way. Jim learned how to kill people from a distance a long time ago, but he’s still killed. He kills every day, countless people that he doesn’t even see anymore. Seb’s idea of killing, of death, is almost meaningless in comparison. Simple. Pathetic.

But Jim still finds it irks him in a way he hasn’t felt in years. It’s not as though he hasn’t killed someone with his bare hands. Doing that is easy, too easy. He needs a challenge. So he chooses not to get his hands dirty, because nothing is more challenging than that.

It’s much more fun to watch others do it for him, anyway.

And yet, Seb’s words settle under his skin for a moment, leave him watching in silence as the traces of Ecstasy show themselves in Seb’s mannerisms, his ramblings. 

For the first time in a long time, Jim wonders what it would be like to filet someone open, dissect them piece by piece. He wonders if it’ll feel nearly as good as it did back then.

 

 

Time passes in between each of what Jim likes to call his “experiments” on Seb. Just long enough for Seb to remember, never long enough for him to assume foul play. For most of Jim’s experiments, it’s about getting Seb into a state that’s easy to influence, easy to manipulate. It’s about lulling him into a Jim-induced sense of security that leaves him open for all manner of data collection.

His last experiment, however, he doesn’t attempt until at least a year has passed between them. After various simple (boring) experiments involving some of the more common recreational drugs, various memory altering synthetics, and even a few memorable pheromone enhancements, he decides on something harsher. 

Something he doesn’t want Seb to see coming at all.

It’s almost as if it’s designed itself specifically for Jim’s purposes, a drug that is meant to be inhaled, something easy (for Jim at least) to be procured and camouflaged in the cigarettes Seb’s always smoking, never without. To avoid overdose, Jim uses the drug to alter only one in the pack. Then he watches, waits diligently all day for the moment Seb goes from cigarette to DMT.

Dimethltryptamine comes with raving reviews from the masses. Everything from, “This feeling of… just… blasting off,” to, “The equivalent of one hundred acid trips at once or something.” On a more technical level, the drug is basically a structural analogue of serotonin and melatonin, and a functional analogue of various other psychedelic tryptamines. It caught Jim’s eye when he read about the Amazonian Amerindian cultures and their consumption of the Ayahuasca plant, the drug’s earthly predecessor, as a method of healing.

The poetic counterbalance of his own uses for the drug is simply too good to pass up.

So Jim pretends to be working, pretends to be busy, all the while keeping Seb in his sights, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Which is why Jim’s left stunned that he doesn’t notice the exact moment it happens, doesn’t catch the transition until Seb’s got a semi-automatic pointed right between Jim’s eyes.

“Where is he?” Seb hisses, pupils blown wide beneath a look of murderous determination. Jim is close enough that he can see the pulse in Seb’s throat racing.  
There’s the DMT.

“Where’s who, pet?” Jim smiles, plays coy at first, because this was what he’d wanted; an honest to God reaction. Something tangible and telling and-

Seb moves the gun six inches to the left and fires.

Jim swears he’s gone deaf, his whole body recoiling away from the noise, away from the smell of sulphur, away from the possibility of death, but somehow, Seb’s hand has found it’s way into the collar of his suit, tangling in bespoke Italian fabric and an EMPA gold tie.

“I’m not going to ask you again,” he growls, and Jim can feel it more than hear it, like thunder in the distance. A warning. “Where. The fuck. Is Jim Moriarty?”

“I think you just currently tried to shoot him,” Jim huffs, and if his voice is slightly shaking, it’s the adrenaline. Obviously. Because he’s got this under control. Of course he does. It’s just an experiment after all, and DMT is only meant to overwhelm the system for up to ten minutes, so-

The nozzle of the gun presses against Jim’s forehead and ten minutes suddenly seems like a very, very long time.

“If I’d planned on shooting you, I wouldn’t have missed,” Seb says matter-of-factly, cocking the gun with a click that Jim can feel all the way into his bones. “And I won’t this time.”

Jim’s certain his mind has never run this fast in his life, which is saying something. Even in the most dangerous, most life threatening of situations, Jim has always been able to keep a level of composure necessary for turning the game back to his favor. This, however, doesn’t feel like a game anymore, and certainly not one he can win.

At least not without playing dirty.

“O-Okay, okay! I’ll tell you everything,” Jim stammers, widens his eyes in his best impression of his most unfortunate targets. “Just please… Please. Put the gun down.” Jim lets his bottom lip tremble, his eyes water. Seb doesn’t refrain, as Jim knew he wouldn’t, but he does get annoyed, which is exactly what Jim is waiting for.

“Stop blubbering and start talking, then maybe I’ll-”

But Seb doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Jim is leaning all of his weight into a rather perfectly executed kick to Seb’s groin. 

Seb’s momentary knee-jerk reaction to the pain is enough for Jim to wrench himself out of Seb’s grasp and away, keeping the gun constantly in sight. Seb recovers quickly, however, and Jim’s most recently acquired Jackson Pollock receives four new bullet holes for its trouble. Jim narrowly avoids a fifth by diving behind his couch, not that it’s going to do him much good if Seb gets his hands on more ammo.

“Sebastian!” Jim calls out from behind the rather flimsy choice of barricade. “Sebastian, it’s me, you idiot!”

“Impossible,” Seb replies, voice distant. It’s followed by the sound Seb’s gun hitting the floor, abandoned. Looking for a replacement. Nearest stash would be the bookshelf. Act quickly then.

“Who the fuck else would I be?” Jim puts as much venom into his voice as he can, ignores the way his chest is burning and the taste of metal is lingering at the back of his throat. “I’ve had peons like you killed for far less than this, Moran!”

“No,” Seb groans this time, and by the sound of it, he’s stopped moving. “No, no, no! It’s all wrong! Why would you be here? You wouldn’t be here! So you can’t be!”

“Here where, Seb? Where the bloody fuck do you think you are?”

“Where else?” Seb says, voice low and harsh and suddenly far, far too close. Jim barely has time to react as Seb yanks him out from behind the couch and slams him bodily onto the coffee table. It shatters under them both, glass and wood dismantling with a crash beneath their weight. A flash of pain shoots up Jim’s spine, his breath knocked out of him in a rush, and yet he can still hear Seb’s response so clearly. “We’re at war.”

Something about that doesn’t sit right. Something about it feels fragile, off. As if even Seb’s unsure of what he means by that. A coping mechanism. A fall back. So Jim bites the bullet (so to speak), takes the leap of faith that he’s reading his body guard, his personal hitman, his Right Hand correctly.

“Of course we’re at war, Moran. We’re always at fucking war. But you’re not a soldier anymore. Remember that.”

At first, Seb doesn’t seem to register the words. A hand wraps around Jim’s throat without hesitation, squeezes past the point of breath, and for a split second, Jim is certain he’s going to die. Sure, he’ll fight, he’ll go down kicking and screaming and hopefully, God, hopefully take Sebastian down with him, but it must be the end. He can see it. Feel it. And it’s almost beautiful, really. Because in the end, he wasn’t bored. In the end, at least, Seb made it exciting.

Of course, it’s with those final morbid thoughts, however, that Seb’s grip loosens, his focus falters. And perhaps it’s a sign that he’s coming too. Perhaps it’s been ten minutes and the DMT is finally wearing off. But all musings about The End aside, Jim’s very much not ready to die.

So, taking that momentary hesitation as his opening, Jim grabs the largest piece of wooden debris from beneath him and swings it full contact into the side of Seb’s head. He feels the vibration of impact all the way up to his neck, sees the consciousness leave Seb’s eyes, and it takes little more than a push before Seb is sprawled next to him in the glass, no more a threat now than the bullet riddled Pollock.

Coughing, Jim sits up, shakes the glass from his thousand pound suit. An experiment well, if not dangerously, conducted, but the results outweigh the need to do it again any time soon. Jim glances at Seb, even more carefully reaching over to press against the head wound. Minor concussion, but no major damage. Psychological damage, however?

Another experiment for another time. 

Jim does his best to get Seb onto the couch with little to no glass shards, checks to make sure he’s still breathing, and then leaves him be. He earned himself a rest, Jim figures. At least for now. There’s something surreal about watching such a tiger of a man go from lethal to docile so suddenly, even if it was by brute force. Sebastian really was a phenomenal hire.

For a little while longer, Jim just watches, listens to the sound of Seb’s breathing and thinks about those words, thinks about what Seb must have been seeing, feeling, thinking when he said them.

“We’re at war, huh?” Jim whispers to himself. His response had been meant more to distract than to relate, but thinking on it now, Jim can’t help but see some merit to it. In fact, coming from someone like Seb, it’s almost an impressive insight. A chuckle escapes Jim without his consent, an almost surprising breath of sound. 

“I guess we are, Tiger,” He grins, finally turning towards the kitchen for a much needed cup of tea. “I guess we are.”

 

It takes so long for Seb to stir that Jim actually grows bored enough to clean the glass out of the carpet. And than even longer still that he orders a new coffee table for express shipping, replaces the Jackson Pollock with a Rembrandt from last month's forgery deal, and finally decides to just wake Seb up himself.

Except he finds himself hesitating, his hand hovering just so over Seb's tense but motionless form. And that right there is very nearly a problem, isn't it. An employer harboring any sort of... _Fear_ of their employee just simply won't do. And while Jim could never _fear_ Seb, that hesitance is undeniable. 

In situations like this, the proper coarse of action is obvious; employee is dismissed immediately, in most cases, permanently. And yet, Jim still opts to rest a hand on Seb's face, give his cheek a not so gentle slap.

Because there's no way Jim's going to let himself be bested by his own experiment.

As expected, Seb doesn't rouse peacefully. Jim does his best to pull away, avoid the violence that wrenches to life, but Seb's reaction time is too quick, instinctual. There's a fist colliding with Jim's jaw in less than it takes him to breathe, warning bells screaming, "Threat! Threat!" as he hits the floor for the second time in two hours. His heart is racing, adrenaline spiking, and despite his best efforts, he finds himself anticipating another near death experience. 

Except one never comes. Instead, all Jim's momentary lapse of judgment is met with is a whispered, "Fuck," and (when Jim finally manages to pry his face away from the Persian rug) a look of horror. Which is strangely invigorating, that. A single look, all it takes to turn the sense of panic into amusement. Not quite tinged with relief, but definitely something that puts all of Jim's pieces back on the board where they belong.

"Good morning, sunshine," Jim grins despite the tendrils of pain that snake down his neck as he does. He pulls himself into a sitting position, weight resting on his elbows, because he's suddenly very much relaxed. Especially when Seb finally seems to come back to himself, his eyes falling into a heated glare in Jim's direction.

Adorable.

"Boss-" Seb starts, but cuts himself off on a wince, seemingly noticing the new addition to his head. He touches at it gingerly for a moment, and Jim can see the instant it starts to register, the moment the memories begin inching their way out of the shadows. It's absolutely fascinating to witness. Especially when the anger turns to shame at the sight of the bruises around Jim's neck, the slices on his hands from the glass. Or back to anger when his eyes catch on the half smoked pack of cigarettes next to the window. Like watching a blind man see. 

"Aw," Jim coos. "Did Sebby have a bad trip?"

And that does it. 

For a split second, Jim is certain Seb is going to hit him again; no panic there this time, just fact. But Seb restrains himself at the last second, straightens his back as if he can hold all of that anger in the tension of his posture instead.

"Whatever you were trying to achieve with this shit," Seb says through gritted teeth. "I hope you have, because I'm done."

Jim frowns at that; dogs are never allowed to talk back to their masters, even if they _are_ being abused. "You don't really get to make that decision, though," Jim throws right back, face expressionless but leaving no room for argument. "Do you, Sebastian?"

It takes a longer moment than Jim would like, but eventually, Seb loosens some, pinches at the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "No. I guess I don't." And Jim almost revels in that, almost calls that a win, done and done, move right along, but Seb opens his god damn mouth one more time. "You're wrong, though."

"Hm. How so?" Jim rolls his eyes, because he's never wrong, and he's hardly in the mood to remind Seb of this too.

"You never stop being a soldier." Seb says, just nonchalant enough to be believable. "Your superiors just change." 

Before Jim has a chance to properly process that statement, Seb has stormed off, an air of defeat about him that Jim should probably feel guilty about but doesn't. Of course not.

Why would he?


End file.
